


The Morgue

by lemon_alien_lime



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, John Watson Has PTSD, Mafia Boss Sherlock Holmes, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Semi-Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-07-12 05:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15988826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_alien_lime/pseuds/lemon_alien_lime
Summary: When a shellshocked field medic shares a flat with a bootlegging mobster, chances are there will be bodies.Many of them.[Author's Note, 05/05/2019 -- The story in its current form is to be discontinued, and will be rewritten.]





	1. Chapter 1

_There is a certainty that comes at night.._

The mud and gravel under my boots squelches and crunches as I force one foot in front of the other. There is nothing for me here. Nothing left for anyone.

I clutch my bag, inhaling, exhaling; a rhythm I can no longer control. My helmet was long lost in the chaos. I feel the cold wind blow through my hair, the smell carried with it. The wretched, sickening, revolting smell.

The acrid, pungent odor of gunpowder clings to our clothes, our skin; it pervades the tent, the trenches, the towns, the streets. But it is the heavier, lingering fetor that lies under it that I am afraid of.

I see a boy. Not even old enough to take the oath of marriage; much less fight for his country. He lies under a tree, red hovering over him like a cloud.

_Doctor_ , he calls out to me, whimpering as he tries to move, to sit, to stand, to do anything at all. _Help me. Save me._

Like a chorus, his words resound, repeat; first one shrill voice, then another, then another, then another--all joining in the hellish choir.

And I see them all. I see them in the ground beneath my feet

~~(our father, who art in heaven, a chaplain cries out, hallowed be thy name)~~

I see them lining the streets; hanging from the windows

~~(thy kingdom come, thy will be done)~~

their hollow eyes stare at me. Watching. Judging.

~~(on earth as it is in heaven)~~

_Why couldn't you save us?_ they ask me. They ask me over and over and over, a growing crescendo. _Why couldn't you?_

~~(give us this day our daily bread)~~

And as they grow louder in this Hadean chorale, as they swoop down like hawks from their perches and clamber towards me, their innards spilling out, their legs mangled, their face torn apart, medals that were never there before shining and glowing in a hideous mockery of service

~~(and forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us)~~

I look down at my hands, my useless, incompetent hands, stained with the blood of every man, every boy I could not save. They all start to scream their question; it turns into a statement I know well, a declaration that I told myself every day

~~(amen)~~

You could not save us

_I could not save us_

_**I could not save them** _

_** I COULD NOT SAVE THEM ** _

_** I COULD NOT SAVE THEM ** _

_**I COULD NOT SAVE TH** watson_

_watson?_

_JOHN_

 

-

 

Dr. Johnathan Hamish Watson, former Field Medic, wakes up screaming.

He tries not to, but he never can stop the sound ripping out from his throat.

Usually, he is alone when he clamps his hands over his mouth and his scream turns to sobs.

Usually.

This time someone hugs him, nestling his head against soft fabric

(surely not _silk_...?)

and cradling his head gently.

But he can't stop the tears from pouring and flowing and staining the tie and vest

(a tie and vest at _this_ hour of night?)

of whoever is holding him so close so soft so--

"Shh, shh, shh... It's alright, John." The whisper is deep, vibrating and ringing throughout the man's chest. His hands absently comb through John's hair, caressing him like a mother would her scared infant. "I'm here, John. Shh..."

John tries to apologise, to say he's sorry for ruining the man's shirt he didn't mean to he'll stop he swears--but he chokes on his words; and all he can do is clutch the man's shirt tightly, compelled by the idea that if he lets go, he would disappear into the oblivion of the Hell he deserves so much.

The man continues to mumble reminders of safety, continues to weave his hand through John's hair, continues to rock back and forth in that soothing rhythm. There's a peace in him that John craves, that he wants, that he needs--but he can't have it, can he?

He didn't deserve peace. He deserved to wake up terrified and weeping like the wretch he was. He deserved it. He deserved it. He deserved it. He dese

"-rve it. I deserve it. I deserve it," he babbles, whimpering pathetically into the front of the man's vest.

"I couldn't save them," he chokes out, as an explanation for his hysterics. Let the man know his failures. Let him hate John too. "I was a doctor and I couldn't save them. Th-they were boys, only boys, and--"

"Hush now, John," the man mutters, his warm, soft lips pressed against John's forehead, anchoring him finally--a wave of lucidity spreads through John as his eyes flicker open and he realises where he

(and who the man)

is.

"Holmes. Oh, Holmes," John gasps, tears falling anew as he brings himself to wrap his arms around his friend. "I'm so very sorry--"

"You shouldn't be. It's alright, John-Boy."

John finds himself smiling at the pet name, despite how utterly tired he feels. He can't bring himself to say anything at all. Instead, he lets his fingers trace patterns in fabric

(soft, but certainly not wool. it felt _incredibly_ expensive. where did holmes...?)

mapping out every seam and stitch.

How long they stay like that, clinging to each other

(like _lovers_ , he realised to his growing shame)

John didn't know. But it feels like hours before he is well enough, before Holmes draws back out of their embrace.

John's dark eyes wearily take him in, even as Holmes' grey ones observe him worriedly. Holmes was, as John deduces, wearing a vest and tie, not to mention a--

"Is that a pocket watch?" John's voice is incredulous. "And a gold chain? Good heavens, don't tell me you're going out at--what time is it now?" He reaches for the watch, just as Holmes reaches to turn on the gas lamp. "What on God's Earth are you doing up at two-twenty-six?"

Holmes doesn't say anything, regarding John with a curious look. "What makes you think I haven't just been out? Perhaps I was out in some far town and beat my gums till I lost track of time?" A sly smile crosses his face--John catches a glimpse of relief passing through his eyes; relief for John, he assumes.

"Balderdash, Holmes. I would've noticed the smell of that car of yours on you." John blanches, shuddering at the thought of the odor. It's close enough to the smell of the War that it made him sick.

Holmes nods, acquiescing. Perhaps he thinks in that in his addled state, John wouldn't notice. But he did, and Holmes would have to explain himself. And at last, he did explain. Though not with words. He bends over, hand scrabbling for something under the bed. John thinks that he must've dropped something--a pack of cigarettes, perhaps--but when Holmes straightens up again, there is a flask in his hand.

"That was under my bed," John says, not asks; he sighs, his eyes willing themselves to close

(but he mustn't, not if he doesn't want the nightmare to repeat)

as he holds out his hand until he feels cold metal placed in them. He flinches, feeling for the scantest second a container not for illegal alcohol but for bullets.

"You're a bootlegger, Holmes?" he mumbles after a sip. He tries to hand the flask back, but Holmes' fingers curl John's back over the steel.

"You need it more than I do, right now. Try not to get plastered, old man." Holmes stares up at him--John's reminded of how much younger Holmes seems to be at times. He's certain they're of the same age, give or take a few years; but it's always been that there was a youthfulness to the man that John envies.

"We--well, I say we out of formality--run an establishment in the area," Holmes states, pulling on a flat cap that had been previously hanging on a bedpost. "I was just about to leave when ah, other matters prevented me from doing so. Speaking of... are you alright, Watson?"

(so it's _watson_ now?)

"I'm fine," John blurts a moment too soon. "Just a scare. Nothing I can't handle on my own." His hand finds and rests on the cuff of Holmes' sleeve. "Go to your meeting. I'm sure it's important. Why else would you be wearing..." John's eyes drift to the vest. It surely isn't wool--it's much too velvety to be that.

"Silk and cashmere?" The words are said without a disguise to cover the immense pride in his voice. Not arrogance; merely a knowledge that he'd come from an unprivileged background, and had risen up the ranks. "Not my shirt, of course. Cotton does suffice." Holmes' other hand squeezes John's reassuringly, a smile of the same type

(caliber)

on his face. Although it does not reach his eyes. "As an Englishman and as a citizen of a country where alcohol is prevalent, I'm sure you do not discourage what I do. Do you?" His eyes eagerly search John's face for a response, for a hint of an answer when none is said outright.

Finding something--the answer he wants--he nods, his smile turning into a grin, his grin finally genuine; he tips his cap, and rises. But he doesn't quite let go of John. Not yet.

"If you need anything at all, I'll be downstairs. You'll know behind which door. Tell them your name and they'll let you in."

His grip loosens, and finally vanishes; the only traces of Holmes left is the flask, half-empty; and his footsteps creaking the floorboards.

(he should hire someone to look at those)

He left the door open, John notices.

He should close it, shouldn't he?

The door leading downstairs closes. Then after a few minutes, another door does too

(not the front door of the bakery. that one has a bell)

and John finds himself wondering if he should follow.

The house is silent, still. John had never liked the quiet before.

Perhaps downstairs would be louder.


	2. Chapter 2

The floorboards creak as John plants his bare feet on the ground and limps towards what passes for a kitchen in their flat. It's a small cramped area, though there is neither a door nor wall that separates it from the rest of the living quarters; only a cubical indentation barely large enough for two men to stand side-by-side jutting into Mrs. Hudson's side of the storey.

It's sparsely decorated as far as kitchens go. There is an oven--only Holmes would use it, sitting in front of its open door writing letters and telegrams; warming himself even though there was a perfectly servicable fireplace across the room.

On top of the oven--a stove, with a small brass kettle. Always the leftmost grill; handle turned away from the edge, _exactly_ perpendicular to it. John had realised that either things were put in a laughably precise postion in this house; or they were scattered and strewn about the place on a whim.

John takes in the sight of the completely empty room with tired eyes. He turns on the lamp teetering precariously on the corner of the counter. He is--he decides--going to do something he had never attempted before.

John Watson, Englishman, is going to make himself a cup of coffee.

On his own.

Mildly "plastered"--to use Holmes' words.

This will be fun.

After searching the cupboards he can reach, he finds a jar of some black--or perhaps brown, now that he holds it closer to the light. It rattles; small rock-like granules inside.

He examines the kettle, shaking it gently to see if it holds water. There is enough for one cup, and no more. He turns on the stove, and thinks to himself while he waits.

John Watson, Englishman, does not know how to make coffee.

He drums his fingers absently on his injured thigh.

The kettle barely has time to let out its whine before he picks it up again.

A mug. He needs a mug. He searches once again--now one-handed, attempting not to spill boiling water over his feet--through the cupboards. He does not find a mug. He does, however, find a suitably servicable teacup; presumably part of a set he has never seen before. Upon closer inspection, he sees it's part of his belongings; the things he brought over to America just several weeks ago.

He's never drunk coffee from a teacup before. "Add that to the list," he mumbles under his breath. He pours the granules into the cup, wholly aware of the fact that this is most likely not how one makes coffee. Then he pours the water, swirling it around gently to ensure the mixing of the two substances.

He takes a sip--and nearly spits it out.

Absolutely not how one makes coffee.

(it's the lack of sugar, isn't it?)

He takes another sip.

But it does liven him up. He can feel his body slowly waking up, refreshed by whatever compound lay in the drink.

("we run an establishment in the area.")

Another sip.

("silk and cashmere?")

Another.

("you're a bootlegger, holmes?")

John blinks.

("i'll be downstairs. you'll know behind which door.")

Holmes is--

(another door closes, too.)

Oh God. He's in danger.

("if you need anything--")

Sherlock Holmes is the

(or perhaps one of the...)

owner

(s)

of an illegal bar. And by proxy, that makes John...

John's teacup shatters as soon as it touches the floor. His foot stings, scalded. He doesn't notice.

He doesn't want to go to jail.

He left London for that reason.

He can't go to jail.

He needs to leave.

("if you need anything--")

God, yes, he needs something from that... liar. He needs answers.

His foot still hurts.

He should do something about that, shouldn't he?

 

-

 

John descends with a bandaged foot tucked into shoes that have seen far better days.

On the third step down he remembers something far worse than illegal alcohol. He'd pushed his boundaries far beyond the normality of a brotherly hug--he had embraced Holmes; like his lover

("there is a place in hell for men like you, corporal.")

he had wept into his chest as Holmes comforted him--

Hadn't he started it? Holmes had begun the act that could damn the both of them far deeper into the pit than bootlegging ever could.

Dear God. John needs to talk to him far more than ever.

He finds himself at the bottom of the stairs, emotions in a befuddled roil of temperament that he can barely puzzle out. He passes the empty chairs and the empty tables; the only light shining in through the window from the streetlamps outside.

John can all but make out the faint smooth tunes of jazz music playing behind a door he cannot remember seeing before. Right behind the counter, tucked away to the side; previously hidden by some crude disguise of the curtain that is now tied to the wall.

He places a trembling hand on its handle, and turns it.

Another set of stairs lead downward, presumably to a cellar of some sort. The gaping maw of darkness beckons him with its luring call of the clarinet and piano and drum--but he cannot possibly enter without a light, can he?

His eyes travel the shelves; locked up tightly to prevent the rats from getting at the foodstuffs the cupboards held. The door leading to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen too, is impenetrable; unless he wished to wake her.

("terribly sorry, mrs. hudson; but i have recently discovered that holmes is involved in business that could well endanger us all." 

"přijít znovu?")

He finally spies an unused candle holder, complete with an unlit candle and a box of matches; and--as John lights the wick--a note.

_I thought you might need some help -- S.H._

"Naturally," John mutters to empty air. "You're always thinking ahead, aren't you?"

His injured foot is screaming as he reaches the cellar the newly-found staircase led toward. He shoves it down, deliberately training his mind and eyes to every inch of the space; arbitrarily labelled bottles and barrels and crates line the walls

("brown", reads one. "plaid," reads another. he can make neither heads nor tails of it.)

and on and on the saxophone and bass drone, repeating the refrain of a spontaneous song over and over.

The music is in the walls. It surrounds and encompasses and drowns and chokes him until he can bare it and the confusion of secrecy no longer. He lets out an exasperated shout, before starting back towards upstairs; towards normalcy.

A quiet _shunk-click_ resounds through the cellar, originating at the point directly behind John.

He turns around.

A long rectangular spot of light shines in his eyes. He blinks, and then it vanishes; replaced by a pair of beady eyes that glimmer in the flickering candlelight.

"What's eating you, eh? Hm?"

"P-pardon?" John peers at the man curiously. A hatch in the wall? Extraordinary.

"Oh, s' _you're_ the limey the boss kept yappin' on about, eh?"

"I'm sorry, I don't quite know what you're talking about--"

"Lay off! Y' want entry or not?"

"If it's no trouble to you--"

The false wall clicks; the drag and snap of several locks being opened rattling John's nerves. The door opens, and he nearly faints as he sees what he most dreads at that moment.

"Detective Gregson; 's pleasure." He takes a cigarette out of his mouth and grinds it against the wall. It takes all John can muster to nod politely and try for a smile; apparently this satisfies Gregson--he steps aside to give John access with a mildly concerning greeting:

"Welcome to The Morgue, limey. Enjoy your time here."

John nods once again, but this time he does not quite hear what the man had said. Instead his attention is drawn towards the only inhabited cluster of chairs at the very end of the room.

"--and that's when I realised it _wasn't_ his arm!" Laughter follows the unmistakable voice.

Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Limey, as far as I understand, refers to a British soldier or citizen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shoutout to "*", who left that absolutely sweet comment on the last chapter! It actually helped me get through writing this <3 <3 <3

So there he is. The liar.

A hush falls over the crowd at the table as John approaches, but the band continues on.

(there are quite a few empty bottles--but far more unopened ones. he notes with amusement that holmes' cap hangs from the mouth of one)

A black-eyed, black-haired man; with a pinched face and smirk, elbows Holmes in the ribs. "It is nice of your boy to finally join us, is it not?" He sounds French.

("it's alright, man. it'll only hurt for--here. just bite down, alright? just--"

"je- je ne pa- parle pas angl--"

"good god... _does anyone speak french_?")

Following the words comes more raucous outburst, until Holmes raises his hand; each man sobers up near instantly.

"He is not 'my boy'," Holmes murmurs, the faint traces of flushed cheeks scampering across his face. There is a quiet, darker undertone to his words, one that John could not quite ration out.

(he couldn't possibly mean...)

The other man aquiesces, nodding; his eyes crawl over John in a manner that makes him feel like a product on display, something to be judged. He feels small, insignificant--then the man's stare snaps behind John

(he lets out a relieved breath he did not know he was holding)

and hardens.

"Detective Gregson," he says.

John turns around to find the policeman standing there, an equally disapproving glare on his face.

"Detective Lestrade."

(heavens above... not another one!)

The man's--Lestrade's--lips curl into a sneer. A hint of sadness; betrayal, even--washes across his face for the briefest second. John is certain Holmes noticed it as well, though he made no comment on it.

(perhaps this is not the first time? it would seem likely.)

Lestrade jumps up onto his feet with a mocking salute and a pointed stare at Holmes, who waves it off without even a glance at him. His piercing eyes are saved only for Gregson. Lestrade scoffs, apparently unable to stand the presence of the other detective, and leaves. Soon after, so do the other men at the table

(the ones with better foresight take the undrunk alcohol with them)

leaving John, Gregson, and Holmes alone.

There is a long pause as they shuffle out the establishment through the back; and somewhere in the commotion, John realises that the band, too, is missing.

He looks at Holmes. Holmes looks over at him. They both look at Gregson.

John winces as yet another door closes, but unlike its predecessors, it slams shut.

(machine-gun fire whizzes past his head. the thrum and whirr and bang sends jolts of fear and dread coursing through his veins as he ducks and pulls his helmet tighter to his head. a chaplain prays somewhere, his voice just barely heard above the din. 

"...hallowed be thy name--")

"Watson? Are you alright?"

John snaps back, his vision suddenly filled with Holmes' worried face. His heart is racing, his breaths following in hurried pursuit as he slowly lowers his hands

(why is he on the floor?)

and rises towards the nearest seat.

"I'm quite alright, Holmes. Do not worry." He tries to smile reassuringly, although the curious stares from both the other men make it nearly impossible for him to do anything other than grimace.

And quite suddenly he is made aware of the simple fact that he does not belong in this place; amongst these people.

They did not fight in the mud.

They did not stop to question whether they would march on and leave the wounded behind, or stay behind and risk the enemy winning.

Their friends and comrades did not waste away in their arms as they wept and pleaded over and over for a medic to save him, to save the life of a young man taken too s

(he shook the thought away immediately. he can't dwell on it. for holmes' sake.)

They are not soldiers, and therefore they are

(blessed?)

privileged enough to never endure waking up drenched in a cold sweat as the instruments of war play their hellish tune in their heads.

And he is not one of them.

He does not gamble every day with the dice of fate, playing a game of cat and mice with the officers supposedly meant to arrest people

(with his heart)

in this line of business.

(john, they don't know! _he_ doesn't know! pull yourself together!)

John drags his hand through his hair, pushing it back in an attempt to tame it somewhat. He closes his eyes and breaths hard.

The other men have been talking for quite some time. He doesn't dare to ask them to repeat themselves. It was none of his business, after all.

(but they could be talking about him. why else would they glance at him so anxiously?)

So he listens, and waits.

He knows Holmes would notice: he always does.

"Enoch Drebber," he hears Gregson mutter.

Mobster.

Found dead.

Half-hour ago.

Holmes needs to deal with it.

John averts his eyes as Holmes' flicker towards him, bearing a question he does not want to know the words of. As he scrutinises a few scattered playing cards that have found rest under another chair

(king of hearts, ace of spades, and a six of clubs; and two others unturned)

he curses himself and the circumstances that put him in this situation. Not only is he now knee-deep in troubles galore, but he cannot even confront the man he came here for. Confound fate. It has brought him nothing but misery and frustration.

(although that is not entirely true, is it? it brought him holmes, after all)

His knee--the uninjured one--

(it used to be its partner, before the war)

jitters unconsciously, waving away

(or drawing attention to)

the anxiety that rolls off him in waves. A nervous habit. His mother has

( _had_ )

more than once cuffed him about the ear to remind him to behave himself.

He stops shaking.

Holmes' hand rests on his shoulder.

The shaking recommences.

"You need something, don't you?"

John's eyes drag from the floor

(holmes stepped on the king)

up towards Holmes' face reluctantly.

(gregson has vanished, he notes)

"Go on. What's eating you?"

(rather common phrase, it seems to be)

"Nothing at all," John lies automatically, and immediately regrets it. But now that the words are out of his mouth, there is no time to take them back. So he builds upon his foundation of untruth. "I couldn't sleep, so I followed after you."

"Are you certain?" If he says anymore, Holmes will study him; and when that happens, Holmes will know he's lying and will want answers.

But John finds he isn't ready to

(leave him)

confront him just yet.

He isn't ready

(to abandon a home he feels safe in)

to bring the wrath of whatever Holmes has bottled up inside down upon himself. He barely knows the man. He isn't willing to risk whatever trouble he might get into because of a few flippant, anxious words.

He did not know what Holmes would do if threatened.

"I'm certain, Holmes. Thank you for your concern. Now if you will excuse me, I believe you have

(the death of a mobster)

business to attend to. Your meeting, for example."

Although John strongly suspects that the one Holmes was waiting for is no longer available for the forseeable future. Holmes' shaking, smiling head only confirms this thought.

"Drebber can wait," he remarks in an uncharacteristically blasé manner. "He's already sitting pretty in his hotel. I don't see why I have to rush to his side like I'm his wife." He chuckles, oddly pleased with himself as he pulls out his pocketwatch.

"Well, this was a waste of a good suit." The click of his watch punctuates his carefree mood. It's almost like he is used to this happening.

(almost like he _planned_ it himself)

"And a good night's rest," Holmes continues, strolling towards the entrance back to 221B. John has nothing else but to follow behind him. "Speaking of which; we should retire for as long as we can. We'll find Drebber when the sun is out."

"We?" John furrows his brows. Surely he meant Gregson and him. Although as Holmes' smile only grows more devious, he realises it is far from the truth.

"You and I, Watson! Think of it as your introduction into the business. We both know you have nothing better to do... What say you?"

John looks between Holmes' eager face and his outstretched hand. Not for the first time, he regrets lying. He sighs

(this will get you killed, johnathan hamish watson)

and hesitantly shakes it.

(are his hands always this comfortable?)

"You're digging your own grave, John," Holmes laughs

( _shunk thnk_

"keep digging, private! we need them buried 'fore the prussians get here!"

_shunk thnk_ )

"but hell! so am I."

He leans in closely, his breath barely skimming John's ear as he whispers words John doubts he will forget.

"But you'll go long before I do."

John is left watching as Holmes makes his way through the cellar. Up the stairs. Back home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a filler chapter, sorry... I thought I might try something a little easier to write while I finish up with tests and the like... School's been kicking my ass nonstop.
> 
> Shoutout to amethystcarnelian, who always seems to read and comment on my chapters on the day they're uploaded like they can sense it <3 Or maybe they just have good notifs. Or scroll through the tags daily. Either way it's <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 from me!

A common thread in John Watson's week so far has been the feeling of utter bafflement.

Firstly, when Michael Stanford introduced him to his now flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Most of the confusion was directed to Holmes' unusual name.

(the rest was directed towards the niggling sense that the vile scent of a decaying body lay masked behind the chemicals...)

Secondly, when meeting Mrs. Hudson for the very first time. The woman had barely the foggiest grasp of the English language. Holmes had explained she had come as a foreign bride; but her husband had died shortly after, leaving her only the bakery and the flat--and a desperation to survive in this strange world.

(this was but three weeks prior, but even so, mrs. hudson's hair had been turned grey and her face lined deeply)

Thirdly,

(and this was shortly after the second)

when Holmes had displayed near fluency in that unfamiliar language, bartering rapidly for a price that suited them all. There was a passion in him that soon ignited Mrs. Hudson, and soon the two--long after the rent had been settled--were sharing stories and laughing like they were old friends.

John had sat in the corner quietly, simply wanting to leave before the clock struck the midnight chime.

Fourthly, before John's nightmares had resurfaced after he had settled into 221B, he had more than on one occasion been jolted awake by the sudden thumps and cracks emanating from downstairs. He had never stayed awake long enough to puzzle over them further, his sleep-addled brain only brushing it aside as some sudden clap of thunder before forcing his eyes shut.

Fifthly, was today. The nightmare. The way Holmes held him closely, dearly. Far more than brotherly affection or simple thoughtfulness.

(and what confuses john the most is his own feelings about it)

And finally.

Sixthly, is John himself.

He had every opportunity to tell Holmes that yes, there is something wrong. That no, he is not willing to cooperate with Holmes' scheme. That he wants to leave the flat and that this is a false start; that he will find another place to live. Somewhere where he has less of a chance to get arrested for simply associating with a smuggler.

But he didn't say anything.

He couldn't.

("there's a place in hell)

He still can't.

(for men like you")

John turns over in his bed, staring blankly at the moon through the window. Before, as a different man, he would be comforted by its serene glow. Now, he is not quite sure what it wants from him.

He turns over, staring blankly at the door. Before, he loathed open doors. Now, they make him feel safe.

He turns the barrel of his revolver with a reluctant finger as it rests on the pillow in front of his eyes.

Click. 

(empty)

Click.

(empty)

Click.

(empty)

Clack.

John cocks the gun methodically, wondering. If Holmes walks in right now, would he shoot? Would he shoot and be rid of the cause of his American problems?

He hears Holmes mutter something in the next room, and turn over.

(the walls are paper-thin on their side, he finds)

John turns over in his bed, staring at the moon through the window. Before, as a different man...

He closes his eyes, pressing cold metal to his jaw.

 

-

 

Holmes is waiting for him at the dining table when he leaves his room.

Like always, he scans the morning paper, cutting out articles at random

(although holmes would insist there was a method to it, knowing him)

and setting them aside under his jackknife.

Like always, he greets John with a cheery "Good morning".

Like always, there are two cups of coffee on the table.

(the mess from earlier has vanished without a trace. john wonders which one of his housemates cleaned it)

Like always, John slides into the seat opposite Holmes.

The black, murky liquid in his cup is lukewarm at best.

(like always)

John doesn't know if he likes they way they both pretend.

That everything is exactly the same as it has always been since the day he had stepped foot into the flat.

That nothing has changed.

That nothing new exists.

That the speakeasy doesn't exist.

That a man was not found dead just a few hours ago.

John swallows down dry, stale air. In a previous day, the coffee would follow. Today, he cannot play along to this game.

He pushes the cup aside.

Holmes, a man of routine, sets down the paper and scissors. His curious eyes meet John's wary ones as he steeples his hands.

The room feels smaller than it should.

"Is there something you wish to discuss?"

Another opportunity, practically handed to him on a silver platter. John should say "yes". Yes, there is something, Holmes. Your behaviour with me at approximately two o-clock. The way you lie through your blinding, dazzling smile. Your secrets.

John should tell him.

He should.

He would be a fool not to.

But he is a fool. An idiotic

(lovestruck)

fool.

John shakes his head

(somewhere in his brain, logic screams in exasperation)

and so does Holmes. There is a trace of disappointment on his face which washes away quickly.

"If we are to continue like this," Holmes begins

(like this? like what?)

"we should be level with each other, alright? I know you thought I was a plain-old dewdropper

(that was a new one)

until today, but I promise you: I'm not going to feed you any more lines. No bull; no bunk." He counted out his last items on his fingers, holding them up for John to see.

His expression was oddly sincere. Pleading, even.

"No lies," John affirmed.

"Po-si-lute-ly. Let's put everything out, right now."

"Everything?" John pauses, averting his eyes towards every corner of the room that doesn't contain a view of Holmes.

"Everything."

He is still hesitant, very much so. He has only known his flatmate for so long.

(just tell him already, the irrational romantic in his head gushes. he shoves it far down. and beats it over the head with his mother's bible)

"Milquetoast? That's completely alright. I'll go first, in that case." Holmes straightens his tie

(he has not worn anything else since the speakeasy, john realises)

and combs his hair back

(to no avail. that incorrigible cowlick of his springing back into place)

exhaling sharply.

"As you know, I deal in a business decidedly illegal on this side of the waters. But that's only skimming the surface of it. I am heavily involved in more... unsavory favors to my boss; who in turn is--how-you-say..."

As he trails off, John is reminded how uncomfortable silence is; left to fabricate and obliterate countless scenarios, each more complex and more terrifying than the last within the brief seconds it takes Holmes to muster up the words.

"I work for the mob. The mafia," he corrects. "And working for them is a severe understatement." He lets out a nervous laugh, his eyes once again pleading with John to understand. "It's better described 'being neck deep in other men's blood'."

John understands more than Holmes realises.

("don't just stand there; save him! you're a bloody medic!"

"there's nothing i can do; i'm so sor--"

"if you were sorry, you would've at least _tried_!")

And while Holmes appears calm on the surface

(" _you didn't save my baby boy_!" the mother's wails echo around in his head.)

John wonders if it haunts him as well.

He is ready to understand, to

(not forgive. not entirely)

forget. They are not all that different after all; both are only serving at the beck and call of men who wash their hands of the guilt unrighteously shoved into the hands of the followers.

"And I'm homosexual," Holmes adds, as if an afterthought.

(ye gods. ye _bloody **gods!**_ )

John's brows knit together into a single, worried, bewildered, amazed line as he stares at Holmes, awed by the sheer nonchalance at which he speaks the words.

He sputters out vague syllables, opening and closing his mouth like some strange fish

(is his face getting warmer?)

as his brain struggles to comprehend the information.

And then...

And then.

He absorbs the three words.

And he realises that there is hope for him after all.

He lets out a singular laugh, one of pure relief; one that multiplies into a hearty cackle that leaves him breathless and gasping; he clutches his sides as he folds over and endeavours to stay in his seat.

"I take it you are not entirely repulsed by my confessions?" Holmes watches him with nothing other than amusement.

John cannot stop wheezing to reply.

To say "yes".

What an odd world he finds himself in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dewdropper - a young man who sleeps all day and doesn't have a job  
> Bull - nonsense  
> Bunk - see above


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this rate I'd die for anyone who comments on my stuff <3 <3 <3 <3 <3
> 
> Y'all are real sweethearts! I love you guys!
> 
> (sidenote: "*"'s comment on Chapter 4 actually made me cry from happiness <3 <3 <3 <3 I love you, whoever you are; you sweet, wonderful person)

John's confessions--after several bouts of pure, genuine laughter--

(he has not laughed since the war, and it stuns him)

are not nearly as incriminating as Holmes'.

(although, he does not tell him everything)

John tells him about the war, his patients, and his nightmares

(but only to a certain, vague degree. passing mentions at best)

and Holmes nods in sympathy.

(or is it truly sympathy? could it be he thinks him utterly mad?)

John tells him about his own strange heart--how he finds he loves both men and women

(but he does not, _cannot_ , tell holmes his feelings entirely. they still do not know each other all that well. john will wait for the right time; the right opportunity)

and again, Holmes nods. He does not comment, or say anything

(john doesn't know whether he wants him to)

leaving only an inscrutable blank canvas of a face to study.

(john cannot say he feels liberated at sharing with another somewhat like him. if anything, he feels heavier)

And John is teetering so very close to the edge of a pit as he continues to talk and Holmes continues to nod. And at the bottom of that pit is that ugly dreaded being that has been hung over his head since he stepped foot on the docks of that great country America.

The being that good men whisper about like children would the bogeyman. The trap, the snare that lurks in the shadows and strike without warning; leaving the tattered remains of its prey behind.

(perhaps he is being too melodramatic. his brother had always said he was)

The mob.

A harmless noun.

A large crowd of people, especially one that is disorderly and intent on causing trouble or violence.

John has never understood how it came to be a euphemism for the Mafia. Yes, both are groups of people; causing mayhem and violence.

But while mobs are unruly and disorganised, the Mafia is anything at all before that.

He could die at any moment if they wish so.

If Holmes wishes so.

(lowly-ranked peons do not own establishments or wear silk ties and cashmere vests)

John does not know why he stays

(yes he does, the arrow-made hole in his heart jeers)

only that he remains in his seat; in this room; in this flat with a man who is undoubtedly a criminal of the highest order

(although john is no different now. the soldiers--the _children_ \--he couldn't save; the ones that he murdered by failing--they cry out and ring in his head in an awful, discordant canon)

and he does not want to leave.

So he continues the routine, downing his drink.

(it's far better when holmes makes it)

Like always.

 

-

 

John does little else in the bathroom other than to wash and shave his face

(the latter when he feels like it. today is not one of those times)

and stare at the mirror for far longer than need be.

And as he gazes at his reflection

(at his haggard expression; his tired, weary self)

he catches himself wondering what Holmes would see were he in his place.

Is it what John sees when his eyes wander?

Piercing silver eyes, containing a view of life that John craves; an outlook that is so unnecessarily optimistic that he cannot help but smile.

A nest of unruly titian hair untamed even with Brilliantine; stubborn

(as stubborn as the man whose head it grows on)

as it holds its curls and careless of what is deemed in fashion.

A brilliant grin, and soft are the lips that curl away from it.

(john is only assuming, naturally. he would never dare to actually _attempt_ to...)

Or does he see something far more different?

(does he hate himself as much as john does?)

John's fingers curl over the edge of the sink as water drains away

(where will it end up?)

and he watches as flecks of water fly from his fingers and disfigure the man looking out.

 

-

 

"Are you ready?"

The words snap John away from the screaming automobile he sees as he peeks from the curtains

(holmes had to restrain mrs. hudson from going down there herself and smashing the horn with a rolling pin)

and towards a thoroughly refreshed Holmes.

"Pardon me?" he murmurs in reply. "Ready for what?"

"Why--to meet the late Mr. Enoch Drebber, of course!" A devilishly confident grin crosses his face as he touches the brim of his cap mockingly.

(does he not care that man is dead?)

Seeing John's disturbed face, he sobers and his eyes flicker to his feet as he shuffles uncomfortably. He wipes his mouth with his thumb and gestures towards the window

(john steps aside as he lets go of the curtains)

mumbling out a few phrases under his breath before speaking clearly.

"It's ah--why the Ford is outside. You are coming with me, correct? I recall telling you about this earlier."

John starts to nod, but stops himself.

So Holmes continues, one hand hanging off the back of his neck.

(the action makes him look like a nervous schoolboy. his new shirtsleeves--folded to his forearms--and suspenders only push the thought)

"It must be rather boring being here all by yourself. Of course, it's all Jake either way you choose..." His pleading eyes meet John's

(he averts his eyes quickly, trying not to blush)

waiting for his answer.

221B, located on the "Baker's Street", is simultaneously the loudest and quietest place when John is left to his own devices. And John has never been a man for either.

(even knowing holmes was in his room at all times wasn't enough to stop the memories from creeping in during the stillness)

At least he would get a chance to go outside.

And if he didn't like it, he could always find another alternative.

"I will go," John concedes

(not before noticing the flicker of _something_ in holmes' eyes that vanishes before john can fully understand it)

and Holmes claps his hands once, rubbing them together in glee.

"It's good you agreed; the boys are looking forward to meeting you proper."

"'The boys'?" John inquires, following after Holmes as they head down the stairs, past Mrs. Hudson

(glaring out the window as she furiously wipes down the counter. she yells something at holmes, who waves it off with an apologetic smile)

and outside.

When John hears wood click and the bell ring--muffled this time--as it smacks against the door; only then does Holmes offer an explanation.

"John Watson, please meet, once more: Detectives Gregoire Lestrade and Tobias Gregson." He makes a grand bow, sweeping his hand out towards the two men whom John had made but a passing note of.

The two detectives appear to have had a rather tense conversation, judging by the way they narrow their eyes at one another in the front seats. Lestrade, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel, snaps his head towards Holmes. He cups a hand next to his mouth, veritably rolling his eyes.

"Woof! Woof! Now get into the vehicle," he scoffs, his accent thick and heavy. "The boss

(john assumes the man means holmes' boss. he shudders, his mind conjuring up what that entails for himself)

is already displeased that you waited this long."

Holmes barks out a singular laugh as he slides into the rear, John hesitantly following. "Clay's always had a soft spot for me. Don't you fret, old bird!

(lestrade lets out an exasperated sigh)

I'll be fine."

"You should certainly be--because it is my head on the chopping block once you are gone." Lestrade snorts derisively. "And Gregson's."

"Nice to see you finally care about me," The aforementioned snaps.

"I say nothing of the sort!" Lestrade retorts as the engine backfires

(john holds his breath and closes his eyes as the familiar scent of smoke fills his nose through the open front windows. he feels so very ill)

and wheezes to life, puttering down the road.

"Oh, right! Because poor little Gregory--"

"It's Gregoire!"

"--cares about nothing except himself!"

"That is not true and you know about that, Tobias!"

"So that's why you run off for three years without telling me anything at all; and when you finally come crawling back you tell me you put yourself in danger for the sake of a country you haven't seen in years!"

(holmes' hand rests gently on john's shoulders, anchoring him as the pounding in his head grows)

"Only because your country was doing absolutely nothing! Don't you dare tell me I didn't have the right to defend what I believe in--"

"A country that hates men like you? Men like us? Don't you dare tell me I didn't have the right to cut you off--"

"You cut me off because you--"

(holmes' hand is gone, and john bends over, clutching his head as he hears the shores of france in his ears)

"Oh, dry up!" Holmes bellows, slamming his hands against something. John flinches, leaning as far away as he can from

(not his holmes)

the man next to him.

"If you want to argue, argue somewhere else! John's sick of it, and he's been around you for less than an hour! You're both adults, so act like it."

John doesn't hear anything

(and holmes' hand returns, its presence soothing him once again)

for a while.

And for once, he likes it that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jake ("It's all") - great; fine  
> Dry up - shut up; get lost


	6. Chapter 6

John does not know if it is the rumble of wheels on the road, or the complete lack of any human noises save his own breaths

(or holmes' hand, its mere being there sending peace throughout his restless body)

or all of it; but as he stares at his shoes, he closes his eyes for the briefest moment.

And in the next, Holmes is shaking him awake.

"Watson. We've arrived."

"What...?" John straightens his back slowly, wincing at the pain from resting in such an uncomfortable postion. He peers out the window, at a respectable--although not entirely what he expected--hotel.

When someone uses the word "hotel", John conjures up in his mind a building quite like an inn of sorts. Cozy, and comfortable; offering its guests a home away from home.

This building is far, far grander than a cottage.

John drags himself out of the automobile as he cranes his neck to look at the grandest building he has ever seen in his life. Towering miles above the populace

(where on earth is he at this moment? there's so many strangers passing through the streets)

and the other buildings in his view--he cannot help but admire the intricate details of each arch and windowsill.

"Enjoying the view?" someone asks. A second later, Holmes walks into his peripheral

(lestrade and gregson march on into the hotel, bickering under their breath)

with his hands in pockets as he follows John's gaze.

John nods reverently. "What is this place?" he breaths, unable to tear his eyes away from the magnificent, gorgeous brickwork.

"Welcome to the Lauriston Garden Hotel! Found off the side of the Brixton Road, home to the bigshots and wannabes of--" Holmes lowered his voice significantly, steering John into the building with an arm around his shoulders. "--the criminal underworld."

John does not hear him, his gaze locked towards the heavens

(good lord! what he wouldn't give to spend a night in this place!)

at the paintings of angels and saints and all sorts of celestial beings. An awed smile begins to form as he finds the words stolen straight from his throat.

The lobby is cast in a golden light as light refracts from the crystalline chandeliers and stained-glass windows; much like a cathedral.

(his brother would joke that if this is what their old parish looked like, he would've attended church more often)

Pillars shoot up like trees from the exquisite patterned tiling to support the celiling; he finds something new to look at as his eyes make several rounds all over the place. He can barely take everything in...

(good lord! they even have an elevator in this place!)

John gapes at it all with an opened-mouth smile as Holmes pushes him towards the box with the grated door at the very end of the hallway.

"Moran, Moriarty," Holmes mutters, glaring at the marble busts of several men lining the walls. "Mycroft... ah! There's the man on of the hour. Drebber." He clucks his tongue, stopping John in his tracks as he tuts at the bust. "If I was running this I would take it down, seeing he's no longer available."

But John's eyes do not land where Holmes directs him to look

(it has never since he stepped foot in this awe-inspiring place)

because hanging on the wall above another bust is a rather striking, unusual photograph. A woman, dressed in rather expensive finery stares demurely at the photographer; her mouth slightly agape, her eyes slightly widened as if startled.

(john finds her oddly charming in her naiveté)

But the most striking thing is that her skin is dark, and not only through a lack of light.

What is this woman doing here, her photograph on a wall of such an important hotel? What a feat indeed. John feels a sudden rush of pride for the strange woman.

(he would tip his hat--if he had one at the moment)

"Her name is Mary, if you were wondering." Holmes drapes an arm around John's shoulder, leaning into him as he grins shyly at the portrait. "Mary Hudson Morstan."

"Hudson?" John's thoughts flash to their European housekeeper.

"Exactly. On her husband's sister's side." Holmes does not offer more of an explanation, bringing John to prod him further

(both figuratively and metaphorically)

and give him more information.

"Mr. Hudson--rest his soul

(john blinks at the respectful tone)

was a remarkable man. He owned The Morgue before I did. I... felt I had to help his widow." He coughs, as if allergic towards admitting he cared. "And--also The Morgue was an excellent business endeavour."

"Naturally," John agrees, his tone mildly teasing.

"Mary was his favorite niece. Not to mention a valuable asset in more ways than one. Very..." Holmes coughed again. "Very valuable in the works of Lauriston. We felt she deserved a spot here."

John's face lights up as a faint blush spreads across his face, a newfound appreciation for the woman filling him. He has just enough time to sear her image into his mind

(if he should ever come across her, he would recognise her instantly)

before Holmes shoves him roughly towards the elevator.

"Drebber will wait for no man, old boy! Time is of the essence!"

(even though you put this off for roughly six hours beforehand, holmes?)

John's heels squeak against the tile as he is budged, making them both wince from the noise. His feet begin to work, pedalling him forwards and away from the hands on his back.

The two detectives are far ahead of them, already finding someone new to argue with: a hapless yet determined young porter. Holmes groans, his pace speeding up to overtake John in his hurry to reach the three other men.

John hears words of their conversation flutter down the hallway, piecing it together before he arrives at their side. Something about the porter and not being able to use the elevator as they were not guests. Nor were they with one.

And as John watches, the magician he knows as his flatmate conjures up a new trick.

(how many does he know?)

"What's y'name, kid?" His voice and demeanor changes entirely. Instead of a calm-yet-sprightly, self-assured man; in his place is a coarser, cruder, jittery being with a decidedly lowly-classed accent. A labouring man.

"Sir?" the porter asks, nervously tugging at his collar.

"Y'name. Why? Ain't got one?"

"No, sir. I mean, yes sir; I do sir.

(he seems rather hesitant about using the title)

Hopkins, sir. Stanley."

"Stanley!" Holmes throws an arm around him

(making a bond, john realises)

and pokes him in the chest. "Y'don't mind if I call ya Stanley, now. Do ya?"

"No, sir."

"Wonderful. Now, Stanley... I gotta little pro-po-si-tion

(he forces out the word in a rather odd pronunciation)

for a guy like you. You," he prods Stanley again, "let us up there, and we help you out."

"Help me out, sir?" Stanley's eyes dart around the room, meeting each man in the group. When they meet John's, he flinches.

"Look, kid.

(and john notices how rather young stanley looks. barely a man)

We know y'ain't workin' as a bellboy 'cause yer old man's got heavy sugar. Let us cut ya a deal. You help us, we help you." To emphasize his point Holmes takes out a wallet from his trousers, counting out and handing Stanley more money than he had probably ever seen in his life.

(illegal money, john thinks)

The porter stares at the money, his fists clenching and unclenching; his jaw grinds together as he makes a decision.

Holmes stares back, holding out his hand.

The detectives stare at each other, frowning; the effect made almost comical by the vast difference in their height.

(lestrade barely reaches gregson's chin, though he is just about john's level)

And John's stares back at Mary Hudson Morstan, wondering what she would do in a time like this.

Finally, after an eternity, Stanley's hand wraps around Holmes' and

(to everyone's surprise)

closes it around the bills. "Keep it," the boy murmurs. "What I want is a job. A proper one. With proper pay."

Holmes smiles

(seeming to be rather pleased with stanley's decision)

and puts away the money. "Congratulations," he says, the accent dropping

(to john's relief. it did not suit him at all)

"you have one. Starts first thing tomorrow at sundown; Baker's Street; number two-hundred-twenty-one. Ask for Sherlock Holmes." He winks, grabbing and shaking Stanley's hand. "We help each other," he reminds. "Room 33."

The porter blinks, processing the fact that he has a new occupation

(that of a bootlegger)

and pulls the grated door aside for all four men to walk through. The company crams together as best they can without touching.

"Thank you, sir," Stanley beams, stepping in after them and pressing a button. "Third floor, sir."

"Excellent." Holmes exhales, stiffening ever so slightly. "Enoch Drebber, here we come," he mutters, and in the blink of an eye each member of the group--save for Stanley, blissfully oblivious--steels himself for the inevitable.

The metal cage shuts.

There is a rattling as the elevator prepares itself.

More rattling as it climbs.

The walls start to close in; dread replaces the excitement John feels.

(he is going to see a dead man. after he thought he would never see one again. why did he agree to come?)

The elevator slows.

It stops.

Stanley opens the grate, and another one after it.

John and Holmes are the first to exit, the latter heading straight for a room after looking around briefly. The former trots after him meekly.

Room 33.

Holmes knocks. No one answers. He trades a glance with John, before trying the door handle. It's locked.

(of course it is. why _wouldn't_ it be?)

He kneels down in front of the door, picking the lock with two metal wires.

(it would be easier to ask stanley to help. but he's gone back down, hasn't he?)

The door swings open.

"For crying out loud!" Holmes exclaims, almost sounding exhilarated at the dead body lying on the rug in the center of the room.

John Watson, who has seen countless men dying and dead, looks up at him weakly.

(at the sheer excitement and inquisitiveness on his face, as if this dead man was nothing but a specimen to study. as if it were nothing to him)

And vomits on his shoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'd think John would be better prepared.


	7. Chapter 7

There is so, so much to take in.

The glassy eyes that look but do not see.

The agape jaw, locked in place.

The clenched fists; arms thrown out as if to embrace.

The legs, twisted together.

And to frame it all, as Holmes surveys the room and John's sickly eyes follow the trail: blood.

A few splatters.

But too much.

(john reigns in his stomach from its place in his throat)

"I knew I shouldn't have given you another cup of coffee!" Holmes cries, simply in

(wondrously insensitive)

awe; he refers to the disgusting brownish-black puddle of brew and bile that coats his shoes--yet his eyes are locked onto those horrid, dreadful crimson stains.

John remains, leaning pathetically against the doorway as the other three men step inside

(lestrade gives him a surprisingly empathetic glance and nod)

and he watches. He breathes harshly as he forces his heart and mind to calm down, shaking uncontrollably.

(get a hold of yourself! you've seen the dead before! what's another one to you?)

Breathe, John.

One; inhale.

Two; exhale.

One; inhale. Two; exhale.

Odd; in. Even; out.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

In.

Out.

Ad infinitum.

(until you drop)

Dr. John Watson looks up once again, reminding himself of worse things he could've

(and had)

seen. He braces himself, pushing away from the wall he stuck to and away towards Holmes. Slowly, carefully--he makes it a few steps into the dreaded room.

(he must think john a right weakling)

His friend's fingers dance across each wooden surface, each meter of silk on the walls in a tantalising ballet. His index traces an invisible line from Drebber towards

(is he pointing at _him_?)

John's direction. But as John blinks, collects himself, and realises he is not the focal point here

(although lestrade and gregson do stare at him like he is)

Holmes brushes past him, not unkindly, and his hand curls around the handle to a door. The bathroom. It squeals in protest as Holmes eases it open.

"Right. So that's where it led," he mutters, then leans outwards to notify the detectives. "Did you see this when you found him?"

"See what?" Gregson's brows knit in pure puzzlement as he reluctantly joins Holmes in staring at the room.

(holmes deliberately blocks john's view with both the angle he holds the door open and his back. john is unsure whether to thank him)

"Ah. That." Gregson and Holmes peel themselves away from the door, both adjusting their collars in discomfort

(gregson moreso than the madman)

as Lestrade takes his own look at the unseen sight.

The Frenchman forces a smirk on his face as he shuts the door, holding it closed with his weight as he leans on it. His dark eyes betray the revulsion he shoves down with his words.

"It is obvious, then? The ah, late Monsieur is soon to write the name 'Rachel'

(he says the name with much difficulty)

before he comes outside and loses to his wounds. We must find this woman, yes?" He glances around at his committee, waiting for approval.

"An alright theory, but Mr. Drebber was not wounded in the slightest." Holmes rubs his chin, glaring at the body. "And as you can see, he is not pale like he should be, if he were to have written the words in his own--"

"Blood?" John finishes, blanching as three pairs of eyes scrutinise him.

"Exactly." He watches Holmes struggle to decide whether or not he should relent and sate his gnawing curiosity

(he is certain that even a blind man could see how it itches at his brain)

or to protect him from whatever is in the bath.

(rather touching of holmes to care)

Eventually, he nods towards the room, stepping aside. "Feast your eyes, Watson."

John shoves open the door before he can reconsider.

It's exactly what he thought he would see: "RACHE"

(and presumably "l" would follow, if lestrade was correct)

smeared across the back wall in crude scarlet lettering.

It's blood, naturally.

John stares at the wall until his hand around the doorknob forces wood to meet his eyes instead. He blinks, nods mutely, and slides past the others to examine Drebber.

(only routine. pulse, wounds; nothing more)

"He's quite grotesque up close, isn't he?" Holmes jests

(before entering the bathroom proper, if the footsteps are any indicator)

in an attempt to wave away the dark cloud that hangs over John's head. And he is quite right in his observations, as John begrudgingly admits to himself.

The body has been turned on its side, presumably by one of the investigators; John notices a glint of gold that catches his eye--a woman's wedding ring.

(that would explain how lestrade jumped to the conclusion of rachel)

John observes the simple band for a while, then moves it to the side with one

(quivering)

finger before he carefully rests Drebber on his back once again. He shuts his eyes tightly as he places two fingers on the dead man's bearded neck.

John pauses for a moment

(why is he waiting for a pulse? the man's obviously dead)

then withdraws.

He finds himself whispering something under his breath on impulse

(our father who art in heaven)

his hands folded as they rest on his lap

(holy be thy name)

and he closes his eyes

(thy kingdom come)

and covers his mouth

(thy will be done)

to stop the bile that crawls up his throat once again.

(on earth as it is in heaven)

"Give us this day our daily bread," someone

(holmes)

murmurs when John stops, "and forgive us our sins; as we forgive those who sin against us. Do not lead us into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

"Amen," every man in the room

(except for the dead, or does drebber, too, echo the words from the afterlife?)

choruses.

"Most Sacred Heart of Jesus," Holmes continues

(only to himself)

and replies with, "Have mercy on us."

(john wonders whether religion has done anything for holmes)

"Holy Mary, Mother of God." And its companion: "Pray for us."

(is that why he barely bats an eye at all this?)

"All the angels and saints. Pray for us."

(if so, john desperately needs a church)

John turns his head just enough to see Holmes place a few fingers on his forehead, both shoulders, and chest. "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost: Amen."

Holmes puts his cap back on, considerably more sombre than when he came in. His eyes scan the room once again, as if he could memorise every inch

(john surely knows he himself could. he would never forget)

of it.

John's heart pounds in his head

(could everyone hear it as well?)

as he gazes at Holmes, his friend, the man who got him into this mess. He takes in the steady rise and fall of his chest; the lower lip that trembles for the briefest second, but ultimately succumbs to resolution; the keen eyes that cloud with thoughts too numerous before glancing down and boring into his own.

Oh. He's been staring again.

John coughs into his hand

(lestrade shares a pointed look with gregson)

looking anywhere but Holmes as he stands up.

"I have seen all there is," Holmes concludes. "Gregson, you mentioned someone else found the body, correct? A..." He snaps his fingers, conjuring up a name. "Officer John Rance. Where would I find him?"

Gregson nods, pulling out a small notebook from within his coat. "Audley's, off of Kennington Park. Number... fourty-six. Gave him the day off. He's never seen a body before," the detective explained

(lucky man, john thinks)

putting away the book.

"Of course." Holmes nods, linking his arm through a gap he forces between John's arm and side

(john almost sputters at the smooth, blasé nature of the action)

and gently tugs him towards the front door.

(the detectives share yet another look. lestrade even smirks with a single raised eyebrow)

"And before we go, gentlemen," Holmes adds, "the culprit you are looking for is a man more than six feet tall; has quite small feet for his height; and smokes Camels. The fingernails on his right hand are considerably longer than necessary--if I may add." He shrugged.

"Oh yeah!" Gregson scoffs. "So how was the old bird murdered then?"

"Poison, obviously." Holmes turns the handle of the door, but right before he steps out

(a cheeky grin spread across his face and he winks at john knowingly)

he calls back into the hotel room. "And Lestrade? 'Rache' is the word for revenge in German; if I were you, I wouldn't waste a second looking for Miss Rachel. Now if you will allow us, John

(yet _another_ look shared between the two other men)

and I will strike out on our own. You two lovebirds have fun!" And in a much, much darker undertone, with the same bubbly cadence: "If you let any news of this spread, I wonder how long it would take before someone finds you in the same state as our friend in there?"

As the elevator rattles its way down the building

(and holmes' arm stays linked with his)

John ponders quite a few questions.

Who murdered Enoch Drebber?

What would John Rance have to say?

Why is Holmes wholly and completely baffling in every aspect?

And why on God's green Earth is his face and chest so very, very warm?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Gee, Watson; I'm not sure. Maybe it's the Big Gay you've caught or something.~~


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO FUCKING SORRY FOR GHOSTING ON YALL AAAAAAAAAAAAA
> 
> BUT IM ALIVE, I JUST GOT INTO SOME BAD WRITERS BLOCK,,,,,,, BUT IM BACK
> 
> so as an apology enjoy this extra long chapter aaaaaaaaaaaaa

The elevator clunks when it reaches the floor to the lobby, and almost immediately Holmes withdraws his arm and shoves his hands into his trouser pockets. John sighs almost imperceptibly

(forcing himself not to long for holmes' arm touching his)

sparing the briefest glance at his friend before he reaches for the metal grate.

John tugs, but the iron does not budge. So he tugs again. And again, and again, and a few more dozen times--until Holmes gently wraps his fingers around John's wrist and nudges it to the opposite side.

The grate gives way, and John flushes from embarassment. He coughs into his hand

(very much like holmes did)

and barely manages to restrain himself from breaking into a run in order to avoid whatever jests may come from his friend. Only his injuries and the simple fact that this building is not his territory hold him back. So he settles, walking as fast as he can while neither looking like a fool nor hurting his leg and foot.

Holmes catches up to him quickly enough. But unlike his behaviour upstairs

(john swallowed back the returning burn in his throat)

he seems sober enough to mourn.

They reach the outside soon enough, the mildly hazy air filling John's lungs rapidly, enough to make him cough. Holmes claps him on the back, mutters under his breath

("steady on. the day's still young.")

but his eyes are elsewhere, darting back and forth from face to face.

John's own eyes are quick to notice that his breathing speeds up, dangerously fast; he tugs forcefully on Holmes' arm to pull his friend's gaze back on him.

"Are you alright?" John inquires, squeezing Holmes tighter when he sees the trapped stare almost escape, and the breaths quicken.

"I'm fine," Holmes lies flatly, finding a spot on the ground rather interesting.

John sighs deeply, near irritated. "No lies," he reminds Holmes, "now tell me what's wrong." He glances around--seeing a few curious looks trained on him, and lowers his hand swiftly.

(what are they thinking?)

"I'm perfectly fine, Watson. The real question is if you are."

"Pardon?" John queries, his jaw set firm; he looks away from his friend. Who was he to ask? They'd just been witness to a dead man, and Holmes asks whether John is fine? Of course he isn't!

"Are you alright?" Holmes repeats. His gaze holds concern, but it's hidden, as if it's too dangerous to be glimpsed by anyone else.

"I'm fine, Holmes."

The words linger for a while, before being swallowed up by the cacophony of the busy morning.

A few questions nag at John's mind, though.

"Holmes? How did you know all those things about... him?"

Holmes gives a half-nod, eyes scanning the street as if he hadn't heard anything. Then he turns to go, heels clicking on the pavement.

"I'll tell you soon enough," John hears, barely audible above the din.

John braces himself for the walk and follows.

-

 

The walk is long, but not arduous, shortened significantly by the running tour that Holmes gives. He points out streets that seem otherwise ordinary, buildings that fade into the background if you're not looking for them, nondescript passersby that give Holmes a nod before becoming just one more among the crowd. And for each one they come across, John wonders how Holmes knows the person, knows the place.

He knows what Holmes is doing--in a way. He's helping John navigate the unknowns of America, giving his friend a map through subtle narration. John doesn't even notice until he catches himself planning a route back to 221B.

He laughs to himself, shaking his head as Holmes blathers on, seemingly unstoppable in his rant. The murder seems to have vanished from both their minds, as impossible as it is.

(impossibilities seem to come true around holmes, now that john thinks about it)

Holmes' voice has a musically theatrical quality to it, flowing so naturally with such charm that John cannot help but be swept into its rushing tide. It wouldn't matter if he were speaking a whole other language, John decides, because it's the cadence that arrests him, the rise and fall of a beautiful tenor.

John finds he could listen to Holmes forever. He's never been a man for many words his own or otherwise--at least, ones not engraved in a good book--but if his only goal in life was to inscribe every syllable, every little action that Holmes says and does...

He would gladly accept his duty.

"Careful, Watson!"

A crack in the pavement jumps out and causes John to stumble, knocking him out of his reverie and he hisses at the sharp pain that now plagues his cramped thigh.

"I knew we shouldn't have walked this far," Holmes mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

John sheepishly looks away, tending to his injury swiftly to avoid incurring Holmes' ire.

"It's not far now. Are you alright enough to go a while more?"

John nods, forcing his weight on his weak leg

(that old bullet's still rattling around in there somewhere. he can feel it scrape bone)

and a grim smile on his face. "I don't see an alternative."

His friend doesn't reply, forging onwards into an alleyway

(john finally notices how different it is from the roads near the hotel)

where the air is stale and thick with tobacco smoke; they both swat the foul mist away from them. John can barely count how often he nearly trips over again and again, the few sparsely scattered lamps barely cutting through to shed light on the ground.

"Where are we?" he breathes, eyes darting to each black corner as he waits for some hidden attacker to spring forwards.

"Audley's."

"This is Audley's?" John's tone is incredulous.

"Were you expecting something else?" The smile on Holmes' face is audible. "Less..." Holmes tries to find a word, but fails, and John's lips twitch. "This," Holmes finishes quietly.

"I certainly was. Perhaps better lighting, better smell..." John sniffs the air, and recoils as smoke fills his lungs. He almost feels at home with how much it reminds him of England.

But where England was, the war was too.

"If it's any consolation, at least it'll be a place to rest your leg, eh? Just for a little while."

"I hope so."

John stands back as Holmes pounds his fist on the door

(every thump stops john's heart and chills his blood)

getting louder and more violent with his strikes until a voice cries out in complaint and a light turns on, streaming through the cracks in a filthy window.

An equally filthy man nearly rips the door off his hinges, not caring to hide the rage in his eyes.

"Who the feck d'ye think ye are, tryin' t' knock me 'ouse d--" But he catches himself in the middle of speaking, peering at Holmes. His eyes grow wide and his skin grows pale.

"S-sorry, Sir. I didn't know itw's ye." He mumbles to himself, avoiding meeting Holmes' gaze

(all the more reason to be wary of holmes, john thinks)

Holmes seems to grow taller, basking in the fear and awe that fills the stranger. "You must be John Rance."

"I- I am. Sir."

"You are the one who discovered the body of Enoch Drebber."

"Yes, Sir."

"And you are going to tell us everything you saw when you did."

"Yes--" Rance blinks, suddenly confused. "'Us', Sir?"

Holmes just smiles, and John takes that as a cue, stepping forward. He's hardly intimidating in the slightest compared to Holmes' looming figure. He's small in stature, his stance is shaky, and he keeps shifting his weight like he needs to take a piss.

But somehow, Rance shrinks back at John's introduction, nodding mutely in resignation as he lets both of them into his home.

Holmes finds a seat on the tattered sofa in what barely passes as a living room, and waits for John to sit next to him before speaking.

"Now, feel free to tell us everything you know, Officer Rance." His smile is charming, yet somehow cold with warning.

("don't waste my time.")

Rance stands, having no where else to rest, and begins his story.

He's in his beginning, describing how he got to the hotel after meeting up for a late dinner with another officer before he stops suddenly, white once again.

John glances over at Holmes to see him smile tightening and his fingers drumming on the armrest.

"Do go on, Officer Rance," Holmes simpers, the tone far too odd for him. "And while you're at it, why don't you tell us what color the sky was, or how many times you breathed."

"Holmes," John hisses, smacking the man in the arm as he shoots an apologetic glance at Rance, who's trying to find out why Holmes hasn't snapped already.

John gestures for Rance to continue where he left off, leaving Holmes to stew, disgruntled as he crosses his arms.

Rance stammers on about his sudden reassignment to escort Drebber, and his going up to the man's room, and when he got to the door--

"You stopped, then you walked back around to the elevator doors. Why?" Holmes steeples his hands in front of his face, suddenly intrigued.

Rance blanches. "Ye-yes I did, Sir. When- when I got t' th'door, Sir, tw's quiet, 'n a man like me's havin' second thoughts about headin' inside--'specially since Drebber w's ne'er involved in good busin--"

"There was no one else around?"

"No Sir. Not a soul, Sir. So I went inside, 'n the gas lamp's on, almost out, 'n I saw--"

"Yes, yes, I know.

(a sharp look from john stops holmes from shooting up)

You walked around the room several times, then checked the body, then you went to try the bathroom door--didn't enter, though--"

"How the feck d'ye know that!" Rance stumbles back, muttering curses with wide eyes. "W-were ye in there th'ole time?"

"Calm down," Holmes says, "I didn't kill him. Otherwise I wouldn't be investigating, would I?

(john doubts that)

Anyhow, Gregson and Lestrade will vouch for me--should you ever need to ask. Now what did you do next?"

Rance takes a few deep breaths, still mystified; but he presses on. "I-I went down t' tell the man at th' desk--called fer 'tective Gregson."

"Was the hotel empty then?"

"Sure as can be, as far as anyone good goes."

Holmes tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. "Go on?"

"There's this drunk feller--shoulda taken 'im t' th'station, 'fwe weren't took up. Causin' hell of a noise--"

"What was he like? His face, clothes--anything you remember?"

Rance swallows, glancing to the side as he tries to recall. "Tall bugger, red-faced 'n all wrapped up in--"

"That will do. Clothes?"

"A brown overcoat, Sir."

"Did he have a whip?"

"A whip, Sir?" John's as incredulous as Rance is, but says nothing when he sees the gleam in Holmes' eye. "No Sir. 'is 'ands were empty, s'far's I could tell--"

"Must've left it behind," Holmes mutters, and stands up. "You let him go? Did you hear a cab or anything?"

"No, Sir."

"Well then. There's something." Holmes saunters to the door, pulling John after himself. "Rance,", he calls out behind him, "your head might as well be better off hanging on a wall. You might've gone up in the force--the man you passed off so easily was your murderer. Now come along, Watson, we have no time to waste if we want to be back for lunch."

He shuts the door behind them, huffing as his pace quickens like a bloodhound hot on a creature's heels.

"But- but I don't understand," John sputters, hobbling after him. "The whip? Why did he come back to the hotel?"

Holmes slows down his pace a fraction. "The ring, Watson. The ring. Somehow this mystery grows by the second." He laughs, wrapping his arm around John's shoulders while they walk.

"What are we going to do, then? The ring's with Lestrade and Gregson, isn't it?"

"Not at all. It's in my pocket." Holmes grins, taking it out to prove his claim. It glints even in the dim light, and John gingerly reaches for it, holding it up to his eyes.

"It's a fine ring to get married with, eh?" Holmes continues. "But for now it's lunch we need--perhaps I could tell you everything over a nice steak. Mrs. Hudson is by far the best cook..."

And as Holmes' mouth runs along, John stares at the ring in his hands, holding it up to the light.

What a lovely thing, indeed.


	9. Chapter 9

On their way back, and more often than not, John finds himself lagging behind Holmes. Not enough to lose him in the swarm of people and maze of streets, but it's still hard to keep track of Holmes' flatcap

(there's an odd, rust-colored stain on the back of it, and that helps distinguish it)

bobbing up and down in the sea of heads.

It's his leg, sore and tired, that holds John back. Not for the first time, he hates it. He hates being slower than Holmes; if it was John on his own, at his own pace, then he wouldn't have minded. But knowing that he was keeping his companion from pressing on was making him feel guilty.

Every few meters, Holmes turns his head ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of John in a passing reflection, nods just the tiniest fraction, and stares straight ahead once more.

John wonders what he's thinking about. The case? Lunch? John himself?

(if it's the last, it's probably about how much of ball and chain john is. look at him, always dragging everyone down)

He wishes he could see Holmes' face: at least he'd have some fragment of an idea. It's more than unnerving, not being able to know

(he wants to impress the man)

but their minds are both separated by barriers upon barriers; and John regrets that he cannot be any closer than he already is, for fear of hurting himself.

(emotionally and physically)

So John does what he always does: he settles. He settles on his slow, plodding pace; and tries not to wince whenever he puts weight on his left side.

(perhaps he should invest in a cane)

They soon arrive at a more sparsely populated area, the quiet sinking in when John realises that the Baker's Street is not far. That home is not far.

John had not been out enough the past week to savour the feeling of coming back to a home. It's as warm and cozy as he remembers, distant memories of similar returns flickering on like old lightbulbs.

And this home is shared with Holmes, of all people. The strangest, most lackadaisical person John has ever met

(his brother would like holmes, indeed)

a man who feared nothing and no one. And then there's John Watson himself, normal

(as he can be)

uptight, and completely terrified of the most mundane things: slamming doors, smoke--simple words, even.

And yet, John would rather not have a home than have one without Holmes.

"Are you alright?" Holmes asks, leaning against a streetlamp up ahead. He's far ahead, farther than he should be with John's steady pace--John blinks, noticing he's stopped in his tracks while he was thinking.

John feels an embarrassed blush creep across his face, and he sheepishly tucks his hands in his pockets as a mirror to Holmes. His friend has an amused smirk on his face, his head tilted to the side like he doesn't know what to make of John anymore.

"Are you alright, Watson?" he repeats, and John flushes brighter, nodding in reply. Holmes raises a hand and beckons with a crooked finger; John is tugged forwards by some invisible force.

When they're close once again, merely a few inches apart, John takes a breath to apologise. But before he managed to form the words, he sees Holmes' expression grow serious, contemplative. His friend's eyes flicker to John's weak leg for a moment, and John purses his lips, opens his mouth once again; and

(what the--)

Holmes scoops John into his arms, one hand propped behind John's knees, the other behind his back. The movement is so swift, so effortless, so thoughtless

(like their linked arms at the hotel)

that John is frozen until they've started moving away.

"What are you doing?" John sputters, hands close to his chest protectively.

"I'm carrying you, Watson. What else? I couldn't let you trail behind all the way back." Holmes barely bats an eye, even daring to wink at a gawking pedestrian across the road before turning a corner. "Especially with that leg."

"But- but you can't just carry someone like this!" John protests. Even more blood rushes to his face, now in mortification at the blatant wink. "What if someone--"

"Who are they going to tell? The police?" Holmes is unconcerned, adjusting his hold. "I don't know if you've noticed, but Gregson and Lestrade aren't going to prosecute us."

"Because you line their pockets, Holmes!" John's tone is panicked, yet he makes no move to leave the embrace. The urge to wrap his arms around Holmes' neck is rising higher and higher--but John tamps it down.

(even if holmes likes men, he didn't like john. who really _would_?)

"But if you didn't--"

"If I didn't," Holmes interrupts, stepping onto the Baker's Street, "they still wouldn't. Have you seen them? Those two are queerer than me: they were engaged once, you know? Of course, they’d never be able to marry, but it's the sentiment that counts, I suppose."

"I'm--what?" John manages to get out, brows furrowed in bewilderment before they raise when Holmes sets him on his feet and dusts his hands off.

"Look, we're home," Holmes laughs, hands on his hips as he grins at Mrs. Hudson's bakery.

His twinkling gaze shifts to John before they step inside and calls out an impolitely loud and cheerful greeting to Mrs. Hudson. The woman, busy with a customer, rolls her eyes, and retorts with a far less enthusiastic remark. John simply gives her a nod and a tiny smile, and receives the same.

The customer leaves, and the bakery is empty save for the three housemates. Holmes locks the door and pulls down the blinds in every window. Mrs. Hudson starts to put up a fight, but Holmes shushes her and says something that makes the woman play with a lock of her graying hair.

(a reminder she's not as old as she appears some days)

She scurries off into her kitchen after the exchange, and soon the smell of meat cooking fills the air.

"What did you tell her?" John asks as they head upstairs to their dining room.

"She's working too hard." Holmes' smile turns bashful. "Like me, I suppose."

"So you care for her, then?" John presses, curious. It's hard not to care for Mrs. Hudson: she's sweet, and kind, and motherly.

But instead of giving an answer, Holmes stays silent, near contemplative. Even as he sets the table in his precise, methodical way. Even as Mrs. Hudson brings plates of food upstairs.

(holmes insists on going downstairs to fetch some as well)

They sit down together, and Holmes manages to balance a conversation between Mrs. Hudson and John at the same time. With John, he delivers his promise and explains, so matter-of-factly, the ways he knew the facts he appeared to pull out thin air at the time.

"The first thing I noticed," Holmes says through mouthfuls

(mrs. hudson tells him to close his mouth--john presumes)

"is that there were carriage and horse tracks in the mud outside the hotel. That was odd in of itself: not many people use the old cabs nowadays--"

"So that explains why you asked about a whip," John muses aloud.

"Precisely. It's not easy to hail a cab--especially horse-drawn--at one in the morning. Therefore, our murderer must own a carriage, or at least know someone who does, and is willing to wake up at an unholy hour to help you murder a man." Holmes snorts. "I assumed he was alone when committed the act, but am not quite ruling it out. Yet."

"What about his height?" John inquires, after a lull in Holmes' discussion with Mrs. Hudson. "And the finger nails? The cigarettes?"

"When a man writes on a wall, he writes at about his eye level. I--crudely, I'll admit--compared the height to my own, and estimated." Holmes rests his chin in his hand, looking down like he's ashamed of what he admitted. "And our man was using his finger to write. I inspected the wall carefully, and, well, I noticed it was scratched slightly. As for the Camels... I found ash on the floor--not from Drebber: he doesn't smoke--and, well..."

Holmes scratches his chin in thought. "It looked like Camel ash," he mutters.

"It looked like Camel ash," John repeats.

Holmes shrugs, throwing up his hands. "I don't know, Watson. I don't study these things. You don't see me writing sixty-five-page essays on the differences between each kind of ash. I simply... know. Maybe it's the color, its consistency--but as far as I know, I'm learning as I go, and what I learn I don't have time to think about. I have a business to run, Watson."

"Ah." John goes quiet, picking at a stray thread in his pants. He wants an explanation, he supposes, and he's a little disappointed he doesn't get one. But he can't expect Holmes to answer everything.

The men lean back in their chairs as Mrs. Hudson clears the table and starts to wash the dishes. They fold their hands together, John trying to arrange the jigsaw pieces he's been given. But try as he might, he can't see the full image.

Where did the blood come from, if no one was hurt? Why was Drebber poisoned? Why RACHE? Where did the ring come from, and whose was it, if anyone's at all?

(and also: how does holmes know such odd skills? where did he learn them? when?)

John takes the ring out of his pocket to have something to focus on, a physical representation of his puzzlement. It holds no answers, not ones he can see easily, anyway. It's just a plain golden ring.

Someone knocks at the front door, jolting everyone out of their stupor. Mrs. Hudson immediately puts down the dishcloth and goes to investigate

(squabbling with holmes over who should answer. holmes eventually concedes and sits back down from mrs. hudson's firm insistence)

leaving Holmes to carry on with her task of drying the plates.

John listens closely to the conversation downstairs as best he could. It sounds like a woman, and she's obviously a bit confused as to how to communicate with Mrs. Hudson. John feels a bit awful for staying up there and listening to the growing discomfort, but he doesn't want to talk to anyone apart from Holmes...

But soon enough he hears two pairs of footsteps coming up the stairs, so the woman must've done something correct. He sits up in his seat, trying to look professional even as Holmes tries to spin a plate around on a single finger.

The door opens, and the woman is ushered inside.

Dark skin, short dark hair--the woman seems familiar, even with her face turned away while she thanks Mrs. Hudson. She wears a short beige dress, a cloche hat on her head for a brief second before she takes it off and turns her head towards the kitchen.

John's eyes widen as she faces them, her jaw tightening as if she's struggling to speak.

"My name is Mary Morstan," the woman from the photograph says, "and I need to speak to Sherlock Holmes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love mary mkay


End file.
